F**K. took me a while to get this one, but worth the wait, Hope it puts a smile on your face, Note it's Carthy not Cafferty!

The Widow Carthy

Back in nineteen forty five, when Pat Murphy was alive,
He was coming to the finish of his life,
He called in his only son, he said come here listen to me son,
Don't you think it's time you got yourself a wife.
All my cattle and my cows, my horses and my ploughs,
Me money and me share of grassy land,
I will give the lot to you, but there's one thing you must do,
You must take the widow Carthy by the hand.

Now big John he scratched his head, with his elbows on the bed,
He was never in a fix like this before,
For he knew the widow well, and he knew she'd give him hell,
But an offer such as this he couldn't ignore,
And though John was thirty four, she was half a dozen more,
And her muscles had developed to the full,
And her temper was set fair, for the neighbours would declare,
She could holler like Mullarky's Friesian Bull

She was tall and she was strong, and she could sing a good auld song,
But her fortune, well, it wasn't fashioned in her face,
And twas known she never cried, on the night old Carthy died,
Though he left her a load of money with the place,
But our John he took a chance, and decided on romance,
They were married by the Curate father Bourke,
They went home without delay, Twas a lovely summer's day,
Straight away he changed his drawers and went to work.

Now our john he was no fool, first he saddled up t' auld Mule,
And he faced him for a five foot garden wall,
And t' auld Widow looked askew, for twas very well she knew,
That the poor auld Mule he couldn't jump at all.
Now when first he did refuse, big John was not amused,
Boys oh boys was all she heard her husband sigh,
But when the mule refused to run, out came Johnny with the gun
And he shot the poor hoor straight between the eyes.

And then turning to the wife, who was trembling for her life,
He said my love go down and clean the cows,
Count the cattle in the bog; give a dinner to the dog,
Sweep the yard and when you're finished feed the sow,
Now when first she did refuse, big John was not amused,
Boys oh boys she heard her man again encore,
He went fiddling with the gun, and the widow took to run,
She's been slaving now these forty years or more.